Chapter Nine : Hope and Ploys


Early Winter 592, Taren Mill, New Azeroth

The city of Taren Mill had been founded only a few years prior, but one couldn't tell it except for the fact that the buildings - whether it was keeps, houses, guard towers, walls or docks - showed little signs of age. Cobbled streets ran between the buildings, small natural area and training spaces were there aplenty, people went to and fro as if this was a normal day, as if nothing had happened, as if it was just one more day in the Kingdom of Azeroth.

Except it wasn't. Everyone knew it. All tried their best to hide it, but they couldn't help themselves. Worry and care could be seen and felt by those who would take the time to listen to people, to feel their fears and their hopes. Eira Swiftblade, Baronesses and heir of the once-powerful and now lost House Fregar of Sunshire, could see it perfectly. This wasn't a town of peaceful people. This was a town of survivors.

She had always been good at judging people. Ever since she had been but a child, a short time with someone and she could read their character as if they were an open book. It had been a very useful skill to have when one considered the world of trickery, favors and backstabbing the court had been and still was. It had allowed a young maiden to outsmart many elders, to push away fawning courtiers who saw only her beauty, her wealth, or both.

It had also been that very skill which had drawn her to a young knight with no fortune by the name of Aerth Swiftblade. She had liked the simple admiration he had for her, the way he seemed to find himself at a loss for gallant words and instead went with gentle but rougher speech. The fact that he had been very good-looking and quick-witted hadn't gone against him as well.

But it was what she'd felt which had drawn her to him. She had felt cunning, ambition, the desire to win in whatever he felt he should be doing. She'd seen the hardness as well, the cold knowledge that he could discard people if they weren't useful in an instant but never would do so in a way which would be specially harsh. This had been a man who was more than met the eye. This was someone who had a very bright future ahead of him.

That, before anything, before even love, had been what had made her do this scandalous thing as to secretly wed a young man who had not a drop of noble blood in his veins. She had wanted to mold him into something, knew he could become great - if she pushed him in the right directions.

However, before anything could be done, the war had caught up with them. The horde had come, and Sunshire's valiant stand eventually failed. Many were killed during the evacuation, many soldiers fell keeping the fleeing populace safe. Her family and most of her possessions were gone in a day, although most of her wealth remained, sent away by her father to be hidden at the construction site of the very manor she now inhabited. A far-seeing man, her father. He'd seen everything.

Except his own death, that is.

It was then that things had been altered in her plans. Not truly changed, but altered. The five years of construction, when Taren Mill had sprouted up quickly and defiantly, had changed her feelings for the one she had wanted as an husband. She had found herself truly falling in love with this hard, intelligent, straight-forward man. For five years he wasn't away at war as he might have been if the Kingdom had held on, but instead he'd been in town or around it, helping in the building, arranging troops and patrols. Consequently he'd often been with her, and it had altered things greatly.

She had wanted to mold him into something for herself. She decided to mold him into something for them both. Gently, but surely, she had prodded him, convinced him when he was unsure, and given enough innuendos to the right people. It had been surprising how things had turned out. The quickness of it had baffled her. That he become general was a goal she had set, but she hadn't expected him to be so...good at this. So good, in fact, that he had quickly gone from upstart child-general to a respected one with a noble title. And, if rumors were true, considered for a seat in the Alliance High Command.

As she walked the grounds of her mansion, the soft hill which overlooked a good portion of the city, she put an hand to her belly and couldn't help but grin slightly. Getting pregnant - that hadn't quite been in her plans, but it was an element she didn't rile against. Far from it, in fact, for she had wanted children to carry on the family name - not her own, but one that already inspired respect amongst the soldier and was seeping, through rumors, to the gentry and the populace. The change of it was clear, she had seen it develop with an eye filled with sarcasm. Coming here Aerth had been seen by the city's nobility as an 'upstart', a 'clockmaker' and an 'unrefined man of poor taste', amongst meaner things. Now, there wasn't a day which passed that she'd see the same cronies and that they would ask news of him, calling him 'a fine man' or the 'pride of Taren Mill'.

When she'd told him about it, he'd just laughed it off. "Nobles," he'd said with a pique of bitter amusement "See things only the way they want to see. Most of them anyway. That's why I can laugh at them - I know them for what they are."

She reminded him quickly that he was a noble now, and he'd shaken his head, still chuckling. "Baron only. Sometimes I don't know if I should weep or laugh myself silly at the thought of being one of the soft-spoken clowns I see sometimes. But never fear, this is only the beginning. One day you'll come to your proper rank."

"My proper rank?" she had asked, knowing the answer.

"Of course. You should be a duchesse, not a baronesses. I'll find a way to go and do that for you, somehow." a grin "If you don't do it for me first."

She smiled to herself. "Come back soon, my love." she whispered "I miss you sometimes."

Of course he wouldn't be back very soon. Not for weeks yet, at least. Months might go by before his army would be relieved. After all, although calm had been present in Taren Mill and the other cities of the west, the east was nothing but a raging inferno, ever demanding supplies, weapons and men. Only a week ago, five thousand had embarked for the east, all arrayed for battle. She had seen it from afar, and couldn't find the heart to wonder how many would come back.

Very few, she knew. Aerth had always been frightfully honest with her, including about the carnage of the Second War.

And as such, the docks were always a busy place. Three days ago, food had been sent to the troops - smoked meat, wheat, fresh water and even a few casks of wine and ale. Two days. Yesterday they had sent fresh horses. And today weapons. She been shown what they would send. Swords and shields. Maces and pikes and arrows and bows. The fletchers, blacksmiths and weapon smiths had no end of work, and yet she knew there would been no complaints here as she had heard there was in Kul Tiras or Lordaeron. The people here were survivors of the First War.

They knew that the lines of soldiers in the east were the only thing between them and the Horde.

And they knew only too well how it would end for them if the lines failed because of shoddy equipment. No, there wasn't an hint of a complaint in Taren Mill. Only anger and sorrow.

Folding her robe carefully, Eira sat on the stump of a tree which had been cut long ago and smoothed out by Aerth's order. It was there that he usually sat, she knew, when the city was being built, and where he liked to relax in those few moments when he could afford to do so. There she saw the crates being loaded on ships far away with crane and wheel and rope. Massive crates of material. And yet the smithies were still smoking, the owners beginning work on the next batch of weapons and armors. And then it would be the next one, and the next one. The people were taxing themselves heavily to keep the army running, but the alternative was terrible.

"Will we be able to hold, this time?" she asked both herself and he "You seem to believe we can, but I admit I don't have as much faith in the Alliance as you have. Our Kingdom's army was the largest, the best-trained, the best-armed and yet what happened? We couldn't hold out. Can we hold? Can we do now what we couldn't in Azeroth?"

Her questions went unanswered, only the distant noise of a busy populace coming to her ears. She closed her eyes. How she wanted this war over at times. But then she reminded herself that as long as the war wore on, Aerth's fame would continue to grow. Wasn't that worth its continuation? No, she knew, but as long as it continued, she would continue to maneuver. For him. And mostly for herself.

Sighing again, she rose from her seat and began to walk back to the mansion, leaving the view of the city - and her doubts - firmly behind.

And that may be why she was so lost in her own thoughts, full of schemes and half-thought longings, that she didn't see the shadow which started to follow her. A shadow which wasn't her own.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Winter 592, Dun Modr, Stromgarde

'Damn you, Swiftblade!' Kelnam Pedran though furiously as he waited hidden upon the rocks of a dissimulated beach. With him, over three hundred men, all handpicked for this mission. 'You and your strategies!'

He was angry, he had to admit, at the way the man was handling this battle. Not that Swiftblade had come up with a bad plan. No. In fact it was far from the case, being cunning, focused on timing and small forces...and also on another item which had left them all with a bitter taste in the mouth, even thought all of them - Halfadas, Ranil and himself - were blooded veteran used to the battlefield and its many sacrifices. He knew he'd be incapable of ordering things the way Aerth Swiftblade did. Talking with Tol Barad soldiers and officers, he'd found this secluded beach which no orc should have seen, a beach over looking the northern parts of the horde base.

Which was very important because of the supplies lying there. Weeks worth, enough to keep up the siege for a long time. It was heavily guarded, of course, but that hadn't concerned the general.

"There is no need for concern on that. I have a good idea as to what could draw off the guards from their posts. Enough guards, at least, for a small but swift force to slip past defenses and set fire to the base's supply." Swiftblade had said in a cool, confident tone.

"How will we do this, sir?" Ranil had asked, elven eyebrows raised in question. Swiftblade had pointed to the map, right at a large beach just slightly south of the place Pedran was now fuming in with his three hundred highly-nervous men.

"If we send about two thousand men there, I think the guards would rush to the aid of the troops located there."

Pedran had stared at the spot his leader was pointing to, and blinked. Then again, harder, as understanding filled him in all of its cold, stark brightness. "General. These troops...they will never have a chance to fight long. They'll be cut down. Look at that beach. They have cannon towers, troops aplenty. That number would never succeed - will never succeed - at breaking them and taking it."

He had looked Swiftblade in the eye, and had seen the look of regret swiftly pass in the man's face, a look immediately replaced by stoic resolve. It was then that it had really understood. Completely understood. "You don't want them to survive, do you?" he had asked in a chill, quiet voice.

"Halfadas, I want half your fleet to soften the defenses on that side, until they land, then pull back as soon as they land."

"Understood, general." Halfadas had answered with a sigh. Ranil just looked at the map then away. Pedran, however, didn't feel much for accepting this. This was infantry he was willing to throw off the cliff, and the old warrior had always been one with the infantry. He had put up their training, had molded them, and now two thousand of his men would be sent to senseless slaughter? Not on his life!

"Swiftblade, dammit, that's not the way it should be. We got over twenty thousand men here. If we time this right, we could -"

"That will be all, gentlemen." Swiftblade had cut in, his voice definitely signaling an end to the war meeting. Still he tried to plead, his brain racking for some argument, but the general - the damn man, who was many years his younger, had speared him with a steely look. "Commander Pedran. Follow your orders. This discussion is ended. Lets get the preparations under way."

And that had been that. It had been impossible to speak with the man after wards, gone as he'd been on Halfadas's ship to coordinate the battle. Ranil, of course, had said nothing about the whole plan. It hadn't been very special to see the elf swallow things so easily. After all, he was in admiration of Swiftblade. Halfadas didn't care for anything but his ships, the fool. But Pedran had felt angry, very angry, angry enough to do something a part of his mind told him would be very stupid. And now that anger was in full swing.

He tolerated nothing. Not a single itch got past him. Already many men had been rage fully put back into their place for talking, and he'd belted two recalcitrant ones, until the hidden saboteurs stood or crouched silently. Perhaps as afraid of their commanding officer than of the Orcs they would have to face.

Which suited him just fine. Let them fear him. He was feeling like he could gut someone and had no time for foolish chatter. Damn Swiftblade. And damn life for that matter!

Suddenly he heard it. A rumbling from the southern waters. Booms from cannons first, thudding into the soil in great heaving of fire. He could see it, he could see it just perfectly by the Light! Lines of ships opening fire on wooden towers and walls, ever moving, ever strafing as burning boulders of iron smashed wall and ditch, flesh and bone and rock and wood into mingling bits. And then the transports coming into plain site, enduring the thick retaliation from the Horde Base's walls. Ships listing from the blows, others taking on water, but all holding on, straight into the beach. The beach which was being filled by orcs and trolls and ogres.

The doors opening, and men streaming out, boldly charging, fearfully charging, all charging and knowing of the enemy, of its strength and of their untenable position. He could see the visages - grim visages of men doomed. Visages of men dead already.

For a moment the vision held him, so heart that he though that his heart would break, that his soul would be damaged, but then he reeled back, sense settling back. He hated Swiftblade for his cold decision, even though he could see its potency. He hated himself for letting it happen and also for considering not letting it happen. But he was a soldier before anything else. And do he slid back into his role as a soldier, blanking anything else. He had orders. He would see them done or die.

Such was the life he had chosen.

No longer listening to his own doubts, no longer hearing the screams from dying men and orcs, he lifted his blade and turned to all of the men with him. Secrecy was over. Let the Light-blasted plan get unto work!

"Rush them men! Rush the guard and burn their supplies! Forward!" he shouted, and with that he began to run, hearing the others behind him utter battle cries and join him in the made dash up the steep, hidden rock outcropping hiding the beach from horde sight.

They came out of the ditch to face orcs, but not as many as there would have been. Dozens were there where there should be hundreds. The green-skinned orcs looked at the rushing Alliance soldiers in confusion and dismay, a moment of hesitation lasting only an instant. But the instant passed swiftly, the faces became feral and dedicated and uttering war cries as they went and bravely clashed with the humans who outnumbered them.

Pedran ducked under an axe and swiftly gutted his opponent, feeling warm blood wash over his gloves, seeping to his skin. He was disgusted at the elation he felt in that moment, as he wrenched his blade free and saw the lifeless body crumple and remain unmoving. He looked around for another enemy to kill and found none at hand. He gave a snarl which showed his disappointment, then rushed to the large wooden buildings standing close at hand. With a heave, he threw the wooden doors open and penetrated, taking the wooden stick stuck in his belt.

There were crates he. Oat, dried meat, fruit, and enough supplies to last an army much time. The quantity was enormous, and would slow down the orcs' attempt at taking Tol Barad. If that General Ironhorse succeeded with her own plan, however, the horde soldiers would find no help anywhere. They would starve to death or eat each other.

He shivered as he realized how happy BOTH thoughts made him.

Outside the sounds remained, but he knew that no help would come for at least a little while - the doomed men would see to that. His duty was to make sure they didn't become fodder for the horde to hack for naught.

A light came near him. Three men. Having lighted their torches. He looked at them and lighted his own from one. Starvation. A terrible death. However, he knew of many peasants who starved because of them. This was only their due. He looked at the men around him, the soldier fading, the commander taking place.

"You know what we have to do, men! Burn everything in sight. Leave them no food! Let the beasts starve!" he growled, and the men moved out. Too eagerly by the prospect.

Swiftblade was getting colder, they were taking orders without questions. The soldiers were happy to starve other soldiers. War was such a terrible thing. And the worse was when people became so used to it that it felt good to be in it!

* * * * * * * * * *

Winter 592, Hasgal Plains, Stromgarde

Rarely were the orcs a patient people. Years of battle and nothing beyond it had transformed the will to fight into an unstoppable blood thirst which wouldn't be quenched easily. Tactics and planning were something new to them, coming from the first conflict against the humans of Azeroth. Not that the soldiers of the horde were unintelligent - many were in fact quite bright and alert. But the need to plan simply had never arose.

On Dreanor, the crusade to make their world theirs had been easy. None of the other races had either the troops or the will to stand in their way, and the few who rallied were always drowned, stamped out and destroyed by the sheer weight of the Horde's massive armies. Hundreds of thousands had died in the Grand War of the Clans, but that was to be expected. And in the end, they had won.

But the humans had been different. They had numbers enough, and will enough, to mount formidable defenses against their attackers. Moreover, the Horde Warchief Blackhand and the Shadow Council had found, much to their displeasure, that the humans couldn't be destroyed by weight of numbers alone, as outnumbered humans often displayed greater cunning than any of the races the Horde had destroyed or subjugated on Dreanor. For the first time, the Horde had been stopped and locked in a stalemate of many years which stopped only when Orgrim Doomhammer and his aides had begun to use strategies of their own ALONG with superior numbers.

Not many orcs had understood that need to plan, even though it finally brought them victory. Indeed, even today, few believed in the terms 'tactics' and 'planning' even amongst the Horde's most respected commanders.

Argal Grimfrost, who had been Doomhammer's most proficient commanders during what the humans called the First War, believed in them. And the attitude around him, the bleak disregard for those words, enraged him.

"No, you fools!" he growled while knocking the briefing table and all of the maps on it down and askew. His narrowed eyes speared each of the warrior in one sweep. "My orders must remain CLEAR and CONCISE or they are worth nothing, the Beyond rend you all! The attack upon Tyr's Hand must first have a thorough survey. Our stealthiest patrols must look at the grounds, seek to gain entrance, not destroy and loot farmlands!"

One of the commanders, a tall orc with large, expressive eyes spread his hands in a confused gesture. "There's no need for it, Lord. Tyr's Hand is weak. Its defenses are depleted. They are a target ripe for the-" he was cut off by Argal's fist slugging him on the jaw in all of its wrath. He fell like a dead weight, while the others shifted warily. No weapons were allowed in the meeting tent, and it made them all nervous, for Argal Grimfrost had been known to kill with his hands at times.

'Good, then.' he thought in exasperation 'Let them fear me! Perhaps the fear will make them listen in the end!' "You don't seem to understand the situation here, or perhaps you are to set in your stupid ways to see things clearly. Let me explain it to you in the most basic fashion: I. WANT. NO. ONE. WARNING. THE. ALLIANCE. FORCES!!!!" he ignored the indignant stares he received and turned his back on them, trying to master the dark anger which surged within him.

That anger, it seemed, had always been part of him, but he always strove to control it. Because he needed to do so. Because the humans did, and that raw power and black rage wouldn't defeat them. Thinking would, a concept he found his brethren to be sorely lacking in!

'And after knowing this, how can one wonder why the Alliance is standing so strongly against us?' he thought in disgust. He took a breath to calm himself, pushing the darkness away for the moment, and pivoted back to the orcs he was trying to convince.

"Our goal is to enter the woods of Quel'Thalas and create as much chaos as we can, weakening the elves so that we may strike at Lordaeron's capital and cripple the humans enough in mind so that their armies will crumble before us." he explained through gritted teeth. "But in order to do so, we have to take out Tyr's Hand so that no enemy will be upon our back. As weak as the city is, if even fifty, if even one human warns the other forces, and they attack us..."

"Then we will simply crush them!" one commander announced "Our army is too great to resist!" Most stayed wisely silent at this, but some were nodding their head. Argal felt his blood boiling, his anger returning tenfold, until an hesitant voice rose to forestall violence.

"But if we crush them, by the time we do, the elves will have fortified the forests against us, no?"

"Who said that? WHO?!?" Argal bellowed, and the commanders parted to reveal an orc he didn't know, dressed in the colors of the Twilight's Hammer Clan. He seemed nervous, and yet holding his ground as the Warlord of the Shade Army marched and stood glaring at him. "You think the elves could stand against us?"

"We wouldn't be able to break them. The humans would have time to mount effective measures against us if we were too weakened by an unnecessary struggle." came the reply. Nervous, uncertain, and yet defiant. Argal towered over the other orc for a long moment. Then, deliberately clapped his hands on the other's shoulders hard.

"Excellent! Excellent! You are...?"

"Frath Highrave, Lord, sub-commander of the Twilight's Hammer Clan forces in the Shade army."

"Well, Frath, you have the right thinking. Something I'd like to see more often around here if our Horde is to succeed!" He glared around the other leaders in contempt.

He saw immediate wrath in the eyes of those around. They didn't like to be put down in front of their peers. They didn't like being told they were lacking, and they liked least of all to be shown the way by an orc with tusks barely yellowing! He didn't care. They were forced to listen now. they were forced to do things his way, or they would look like fools. That Frath might not live long after this outburst, but at least things were finally moving.

He heaved the table back into place and snatched a few of the maps, rapidly choosing the one he wanted: Quel'Thalas. Merely an outlining, for even the copies from King Perenolde's stash in Alterac failed to give any detail. But it did show that it was big. Very, very big. A huge forested territory, something the Army would have trouble circulating in. He didn't have to tell his commanders that. Although rigid in their old ways, they were not stupid at all. They were simply missing an important point.

"If the elves have knowledge of us too soon, they will be able to put myriads of traps. Each grove would become a battlefield, each glade an ambush. I have no doubt that we would prevail, but the cost would be high. Maybe half of the Shade Army." he forestalled any protest with a glare. "It is NOT impossible. These are facts, brethren. If we do not catch them by surprise, they will be ready for us, and half of the Shade Army might not be enough to destroy Lordaeron's capital. All of this wait, all of these preparations, will have been for nothing!! I will NOT allow it!"

Growls of approval and wise nods followed this. They were beginning to get use to the facts. Good. However, one of the commanders advanced a step, frowning.

"Lord, what prevents them from doing so even after we penetrate their forests?"

Argal gave a toothy grin. "Brethren, there is nothing to fear. The elves are notoriously slow in making decisions. It is a wonder they joined the humans this quickly, in fact. Our superiority will be so great that they will be overwhelmed, unable to decide anything. We will shake them to their core and they will be no help to Lordaeron when we turn our sights to its capital." he looked around. "The Alliance prides itself on its victories south, while they are in fact being lured away, weakening their core. Their doom has come."

The growls intensified, bloodlust apparent on many faces. They could see the Alliance already broken, the Horde taking over the land for itself. Argal could see it too, but again fought the need for violence. He took another map, this one detailling Tyr's Hand - another 'gift' from Alterac.

"But first Tyr's Hand falls. No one must escape us. Not a single life must be spared. The city must be razed to the ground and all of those inhabiting it erased from existence! Am I understood?"

He didn't need to know it. Their faces said it all. They were convinced. Set in their ways yet, but convinced.

Tyr's Hand would fall as Argal Grimfrost wished it to fall, and no one would say anything against this.

* * * * * * * * * *

Late Winter 592, Tol Barad, Stromgarde

"Are you certain of this Ranil? This is important."

"I wouldn't say it if I wasn't certain. Our scouts have reported this. Even the twins have given me reports about this."

"And how long will the base's supplies last?"

"According to the combined reports, anything between two to three weeks."

Halfadas was glad when the ghost of a smile came to General Swiftblade's lips when Ranil said the date. The Light knew it was a rare sight on anyone, but it was rarer still on him, ever since they had left Taren Mill. Something had set the man's mind into a brooding mood which rarely let anything shine. It was nice to see the light flicker in, even if for a few moments. It was deserved as well, after the work they had all done.

The goal had been to keep Tol Barad at all costs, and to turn the Horde back from their positions from Dun Modr. The first had been easy enough, as the twenty thousand men of the First Army had disembarked, repelling stiff orc raids until the walls of the island citadel had been rebuilt and reinforced. However scout reports and interviews with peasants who knew the area told them one thing quickly: the enemy was too well-entrenched to be dislodged, even if the entire army was put forward, something they couldn't afford to risk. So Swiftblade had opted to wait, dedicating his time more to writing missives and utilizing the strange devices the gnomes had created - unwieldy amalgams of sails and wood which had the miraculous ability to fly - to carry his messages and perform recons of the base, ever brooding.

The shade of sunlight had come when a message had been received by General Ironhorse, the famed Blade Maiden of the Fourth Army, a concerted effort to dismantle Horde control in the area, aiming at destabilizing the Horde and push them towards the Land Bridges, which could be held with the help of the Alliance Navy. Doing so would certainly give the Alliance forces a much-needed breather and the ability to fortify and plan its next move. It wouldn't be an easy achievement by any means, but both generals had seemingly agreed on one thing: Dun Modr had to fall if the Alliance was to succeed in driving the enemy away.

That was when he had unveiled his plan, not listening to advice this time, coldly telling them what they would do and what would happen. Send over a thousand man to create a doomed diversion, backed by the naval forces, while a few hundred handpicked men set fire to the supplies. Unlike at Zul'Dare, the day wouldn't be won through tricking the main force but rather starving it until they had no choice but to leave, a weakened mob broken by hunger. The plan had been well-detailed and sound, but the cold way Swiftblade had decided to sacrifice troops had faintly disappointed him in the man, who had seemed so ready to keep his army alive. It was only upon seeing the alternative that he had realized that it hadn't changed: if they had attacked, far more than the nine hundred lost would have been. It didn't change the cold way the order had been given.

Halfadas knew no one could be perfect, everyone had flaws - Swiftblade was simply detached from his orders and loath to take counsel. Still, it troubled him, even while he knew he certainly had his share of flaws himself, and so couldn't judge. Ranil had probably thought something similar, but had taken his orders in stride.

But not Pedran.

The old commander had argued against the plan over and over, asserting that it was better for soldiers to die a true battle and not in a butchery. His pleas had fallen on deaf ears, which had led to begging, and then to an angry tirade that had been forcibly stopped by Swiftblade evenly telling the man to do his job, or else he would be removed from command. That had shut him up. But the anger had remained in the old man's eyes.

"...remains of the enemy fleet?"

Halfadas blinked, quickly breaking out of his reverie and directing his gaze towards the general. "I'm sorry sir. You were saying?"

"I was asking if you thought we will have problems with the remainder of the enemy fleet." came the reply.

He couldn't help but smirk arrogantly at that. "I don't think so, sir. I sent most of their ships packing, and I can easily wipe them out if they try anything funny." The Horde, he always scoffed, might be fearsome land warriors but didn't know one bit about the sea. They were undisciplined and scattered, easy prey to a good elven or human naval officer. And Halfadas was damn good, and he knew it.

Swiftblade nodded. "Good. Excellent. So that means we'll be able to hold our own. Ranil. Do we have enough food to feed everyone for at least six weeks? And do we have enough archers to hold back the desperate raids the Horde will launch at us."

Ranil considered, opened his mouth to reply, but was most unceremoniously cut off as the door to the war room opened jerkily. All of them turned their immediate attention, including the guards at said entrance. There, late in arriving, was Kelnam Pedran, infantry commander.

A very drunk Kelnam Pedran. Dressed badly, hair unkempt and eyes bloodshot, holding a jug of wine in his beefy hand. Halfadas felt himself grow cold.

"So...yurr happy man...t'send those...those kids tuh duh grind?" came the slurred comment as the man heaved forward, his massive frame unsteady. "Arryu happy, yuh damn...cold...kid of huh gen'ruhl?"

The guards moved to intercept the drunken man, but a gesture from Swiftblade, who looked at the advancing man with cool detachment.

"Arryu hup...happy...Sw'ftbleduh?!?" came the angrier reply.

"Yes. Extremely." came the cold reply "And you should be happy too. Or are you too blind or simply too dumb to see it?!?" Even Ranil seemed taken aback by the sheer venom emanating from the General of the First Army. It had an effect on Pedran, whose eyes widened, then glared crimson.

"Damn yuh, damn yuh...DAMN YOU TO OBLIVION!!!" he finally bellowed quite clearly, charging his commanding officer blindly. Ranil, Halfadas and the guards all rushed to stop the altercation, but it turned out there was no need.

Pedran's drunken charge was clumsy, with no coordination. And Swiftblade was an accomplished warrior, and a sober one. He let the man come within reach, evading the heavy and unsteady swing, kicking him in the shin as soon as this was done, finally tripping him. The excellent melee fighter landed on his belly, right on the floor. With a growl, he attempted to get up, but by that time the guards had come, and taken hold of him roughly, dragging away his cursing body.

"Don't be harsh." Swiftlblade admonished the guards slightly. "The drink is what's making him rant. Just take him to his quarters and keep him there. I'll go talk to him tomorrow."

"Damn yuh...damn yuh...why're yuh happy...all thuse boys...how can yuh be happy?" the drunk commander ranted.

"Because we won, Pedran." the general answered, and for a few moments the idealistic man they had begun their campaigns with reappeared, standing straight and too good to be true. A man who was perhaps lost, who perhaps had never existed "Because this thousand....means many more of our soldiers will live to fight again."

Whether the old man heard or not Halfadas couldn't tell, but it made the man fall silent. Swiftly the guards dragged him outside, leaving only the jug - discarded in the drunken rush - and the stench of cheap wine. Ranil looked about and shook his head, sniffing.

"How vulgar." he said "Sometimes you humans can really be such -"

"Shut up, elf." came the flat reply from the two humans in the room. Swiftblade speared him with a look which shut his mouth, although the disdainful air - so very elven - remained firmly in place. The general only turned to them, sighing.

"Pedran is wrong. I wasn't happy about the deaths. But sometimes I see things like he does, and at those moments." he gave a mirth-lacking grin. "Sometimes, being a general comes with such a very necessary but heavy price."

And neither Halfadas nor Ranil found anything to add.

* * * * * * * * * *

Early Spring 593, Redburn Mountains, Azeroth

They had her. Not that the whole battle was over, they knew it. However, they knew they were closing on her now, her very defenses were open. Soon, the Horde - no, the sons of Blackhand - would bring Doomhammer a rich weregild not of gold but of another, living material. It would perhaps not prove their loyalty to the Warchief, but it would certainly please him.

Of course, the task hadn't fallen on them. They would only take the credit for it. The task had fallen on another whom also had felt great loyalty towards Blackhand, and felt far less for his younger successor. It was a dirty and dangerous assignment for one such as he. However, Zuluhed, known as the Whacked because of his immense daring, wasn't one to back down from anything.

Even if it was about capturing Alexstrasza the Dragonqueen.

He had done his best to fulfill it, following trails from legends he read from captured Azerothian Books, painfully deciphering texts and poems until he knew where the Queen of the Red Dragons reposed. He had been aided in this endeavor by many, including by one who looked human yet was not, who was looking impassively as two more dragons, each having slain over a hundred grunts single-handedly, fell to the blows and magic of the assembled troops. Already half of their number - over one thousand casualties - lay dead on the rocky fields. A stiff price to pay, but it would be worth it, once they had what they sought.

And there they were, before the great cavern which served as the Dragonqueen's extensive roost, killing her guardians and children. Their death screams resounded clearly, and there was no doubt that they would be heard by whatever ear was there inside of it.

"Will she come out. I would rather she did, it would save us much trouble." Zuluhed asked, his aged voice sharp, to the one beside him. An arrogant, superior look answered him.

"Of course she will. You have killed six of her dragons on her doorstep. She won't be able to resist the urge to take revenge." he licked his lips at the thought. "Marvelous."

"He speaks the truth. We all fill her anger, her hatred. She comes." came a strange, hollow voice. The old orc didn't turn to see who had spoken. The power - and oh, the beyond, the sheer STENCH - were unmistakable marks. Doomhammer, once apprised of the plan, had been wishing for its success, enough that he had sent thirty of these...Death Knights...to assist. Enveloped in deep black clocks, coals hiding their faces from the world, the powerful entities still showed rusted and rotting garment and armor, which had once belonged to bothersome azerothian knights who had been killed during the previous war. Each of them carried a necromantic staff of power, and knew how to use the magic which gave them the semblance of life.

Still, despite their power, their obvious loyalty and their overall usefulness, Zuluhed couldn't find himself able to do anything but loathe them. They were just too...wrong...somehow. Even the one next to him seemed to dislike them. Once a great Shaman, Zuluhed had turned to necromancy and the powers of the beyond, but hadn't taken part of either the Warlock or Necrolyte group - something which had saved his life. Still, something within him was appalled every time he saw those monstrosities, riding on strange beasts.

A great rumble stopped his train of thoughts, and he focused on the immense cave's entrance. Something was lumbering towards them. Something quick and immense. Something which radiated power to dwarf even the strongest dragon they had fought to get there. Something which walked in rage.

The thunder intensified, all of the strike force waiting tensely, until she came. Gigantic, yet graceful, scales as bright and as red as human blood, despite her being perhaps the oldest being to walk this world. Reptilian eyes swept over the sight, took in the dead dragons with eyes which narrowed and flashed in an ugly light. When she spoke, the world shook.

"MURDERING BEASTS! YOU DARE PENETRATE MY TERRITORY AND KILL MY CHILDREN?!? YOUR LIVES ARE FORFEIT!!" she rumbled, spreading her wings. "I WILL CRUSH YOU LIKE BUGS!!!"

Although her power was indeed great, Zuluhed had expected more. There wasn't the torrent of raw magic he had read of in the old tales. She was very powerful, indeed she was. But far less than she should be. The old orc shaman gave a grim smile.

"I think not, Dragonqueen. We will not die. Neither will you. You are far too important to us." he raised his hand. "ATTACK!! BRING IT DOWN!" he bellowed to the assembled mass of Ogres and grunts which had been assembled. As one, they roared a challenge, feeling strong in their numbers, and charged the monolithic Dragonqueen.

The attack was a failure, of course. Zuluhed expected no less from a dragon of this sheer size and natural strength. Claws swiped and killed a dozen there, gouts of fire rushing from the huge maw killed twenty or more each time, while magical spells killed even more. A hundred of the attackers died within moments, and the rest was proceeding to follow. Yet they wouldn't stop. They couldn't - their Clan pride kept them coming, until two hundred remained standing, then one hundred, still pressing.

So occupied was the Dragonqueen with taking on the massed forces, however, that she didn't see the Death Knights riding to each side, surrounding her immense form, beginning to chant in hollow voices. It was only when, using her tail, she'd dispatched the last of the attackers, the she saw those surrounding her.

"THIS WILL NOT AID YOU." She rumbled as she took an immense step towards Zuluhed and the one next to her. In response, the orc showed her an object, and she stopped in bewilderment and dismay. A simple, heavy circle of metal, radiating ancient power. The Power of Alexstrasza, the power of three of the other Five Ancient Dragons. "THE DEMON SOUL!!! BUT HOW CAN THIS..." then her reptilian eyes set on the one beside Zuluhed, and in that moment, she recognized who it was. "YOU!!!!" she bellowed in rage and terror.

The one who looked like a human and yet wasn't smirked. "Yes. I. You will be of great use to them, Alexstrasza. And to me especially." The smirk changed into something darker at that, but Zuluhed didn't take heed of it. He was far too occupied.

Focusing his energies into the Demon Soul - the terrible artifact which all but one of the Ancient Dragons feared in a mortal way - he asked for the Great Dark Beyond for the strength it could give, and the cold energies responded quickly to his summons. Channeling it through the cold circle, the energy lanced out to all of the thirty Death Knights' staff. His one chance had come. If it didn't work, he'd be too spent to do anything, and the one next to him wouldn't help him against Alexstrasza's wrath.

"Korash Melgr'aak Sanuk Zirrs Kalnak! Koras Meganuk Sanuk Zirren Kalnak!" he intoned "I call upon the wind of the void, the dark spirits of the mind. Use this creature's power and subdue her will. I beseech the Great Dark Beyond!" With that, the energy contained within the demon soul flared, and the great Dragonqueen reeled. "Now! JERAK OR-NOLLOK!!!!"

Beams of energy, semi-transparent, a mix of the contained power within the artifact and the power of necromancy, spread forth to the staff, which immediately ignited the orbs and struck at the intended target - the huge dragon. A roar of pain and rage echoed through the mountains, a sound which would be heard from Blakrock Spire to Grim Batol. Yet the Dragonqueen could do naught, caught as she was against this artifact, crafted by one of the Ancient Dragons against its brethren, a traitor known only by one name the world over.

"DEATHWING!!!" she bellowed in impotent fury, her strength sapped by the battle she's had with hundreds of horde troops and by the Demon Soul. "I WILL NOT FORGET THIS. THE DAY WILL COME WHERE YOU AND I WILL MEET AGAIN. THERE SHALL BE A RECKONING FOR THIS!"

The man next to Zuluhed laughed gaily at that. "Ah, my Queen! So much honor for me! I am unworthy!" and as he said this his eyes changed, going from brown to red, power unimaginable swelling the mortal envelope. "And from now on, however, I and my...associates....will control everything you do, everything you say. Including your children!"

And as the great dragon, the oldest dragon, fell under the relentless assault, as a feeling of victory ripped through his body, Zuluhed wondered why a part of him was telling him that, in the long run, he had just made a very grave mistake in taking the Queen of all Dragonkind as a captive.

* * * * * * * * * *

Spring 593, Tyr's Hand, Stromgarde

Spring. It was supposed to be a time of renewal, a time for vows to be fulfilled, for friendships to be made. For love to be found. In Tyr's Hand, spring was usually all about farmers taking to the field around the city, for the marketplace to pick up the pace and sell wares to relieved, prosperous people. It was a time for hope, where one should have the most faith in the Light.

But right now, Klenin Debrik, simple soldier in the local Tyr's Hand militia, doubted anyone in the small city had anything to say to the Light, except for the fact that they all wished to curse it with all of their soul's strength.

Tyr's Hand had always been a town of independent folk, removed from the main communication and trading lanes between Stromgarde and Quel'Thalas, only loosely part of the first and barely in contact with the other, even thought the elven home land was less than thirty leagues distant. The Troll Wars had rarely touched them, the fighting usually being far away. The only attack they had had usually came from small bands of trolls, which the town's militia could handle itself. It gave what the crown asked in its wars, no more, no less. Even the present war hadn't affected them. The meeting of all the nations, the forging of the Alliance, all of that seemed of little far-off to the average Tyrian townsman. Certainly, they had sent men - two thousand exactly, with no desire to send one man more. The war, after all, was far down south. It had nothing to do with them.

Tyr's Hand was an isolated region and all in the city loved it. No longer. For the unthinkable had happened. The war had come to them in all of its madness and fury. One day, all was calm and serenity. The next, the Horde, the behemoth of destruction, were shrieking at the walls, battering it with catapults, trying to scale its walls. Thousands upon thousands of armed beasts of green, flanked by hundreds upon hundreds of large, two-headed giants, of trolls. Catapults hurled against the walls incessantly, and each time they charged the walls, they seemed to come ever closer to overrunning the guard.

There had been too little time to prepare. Every man who could fight had been called but most were just merchants or farmers or people with no fighting experience whatsoever.

How could they have come to them so swiftly, so suddenly? The thought preyed upon Klenin's mind incessantly. They had cut them off so quickly. How? How? And how could they be there, while news were thick with the Alliance fighting them far south?

"Light! They're scaling again! Push them back, push them-"

"Too many ladders, too many breaches. No way we can-"

"They keep comin' and comin'. We can't hold them. They're- ARRRGH!"

Alarmed by the sound, Klenin turned to look in the direction the voices - and the screams - were coming from - and he felt himself go stiff with terror. There, on one part of the wall, orcs had succeeded in scaling, landing quickly. Already a dozen were fighting the men who were desperately trying to hold them back - unsuccessfully. More were coming.

Shouts came from another direction. Some orcs had succeeded there too. Then there was another. And then another. The entire wall, cracked and crumbling, was soon awash with frenzied fighting. Klenin, although being over twenty-five and serving under the militia for nearly ten, knew that none of the men of the militia could stand their ground. They didn't have the armor, the training and strategies which tales told allowed the Alliance Footmen to not only hold on, but win more often than they lost. The farmers, armed with rusty blades, long knives and pitchforks, were even worse. Three men died for every orc slain, and the orcs had far more man power.

They were doomed.

"Nonononono its not supposed to be happening not supposed nonono...." his terrified mind told him, and he found himself rooted on the spot, watching the growing carnage, not heeding the other men and women rushing to aid in the desperate defense.

Klenin Debrik was a strongly built man, but his courage was far more shaky. He had found a way to prevent his being drafted to the forces Tyr's Hand had sent south to aid in the war effort. He much preferred the militia, where the worst which could happen would be a few fights between drunken merchant and farmers. He didn't know how to handle something this big, didn't WANT to know how to handle it. All he could think were that doom had come. This wasn't Redgates, with its high walls, its redoubts and fortresses and knights. Redgates would have stood longer than these three days. But Tyr's Hand was at the end of its rope.

He was a dead man.

Yet Klenin, even knowing this, did not chose to fight. Instead, he fled from the walls.

Someone spotted him. "Coward! Come back!" he didn't even turn around to see who it was. It didn't matter, that person would be dead soon. His mind, however, wanted only one thing: to hide! Deeply, so they couldn't find him! Shame filled him at the thought, but fear drowned it quickly, and soon all the young man thought about was to save his own skin.

Havetomakeithavetomakeithavetomakeit!!!

His mind was blurring from the panic. Above, screams of pain uttered from human throats mostly. The last defenses were being overrun quickly.

A rock from a catapult exploded in a building near him, showering him with gravel and stone chips, cutting into his skin. He heard screams of terror and pain, and realized they came not from him, but from inside. Women's voices amongst them. It didn't matter. They were dead. Except him. He would survive. Yesyes, he would survive!

Someway.

SOMEHOW!!!

Yesyes, he would. He had to.

He ran more than scaled down the ladder, jumping the last two meters, his sword forgotten, when he heard a resounding thud, then another. The walls were on the verge of being overtaken, but the Horde, it seemed, wanted the city to be truly invested. They were ramming the gates. Doors which the city council, in hindsight acting stupidly even though it seemed only natural, had decided not to replace and reinforce them with ironwood and steel. They were of old wood, fallen in disuse since the last troll raid, when he had been but a small child. They wouldn't hold.

On the streets, panic had fallen like a blanket of madness, the certainty of impending doom setting people into a frenzy. Some shouted, many wept, and even more ran to and fro, hoping to escape. 'It can't end like this...-I- CAN'T END LIKE THIS!" he thought desperately, as he heard the last of many thuds, and a great cracking sound. He turned to see the gates burst open, a few men in leather armor and swords standing near, defiantly. In came two-headed giants, smashing them with their bare fists, while huge green skinned warriors with large axes hacked the others with apparent glee.

As the attackers continued in their grisly deed, terror completely paralyzed the man who had sworn to defend Tyr's Hand while hoping he would never have to. He felt something warm between his legs as he looked at the approaching two-headed behemoths, shaking, uncaring of his shame, only able to repeat the same litany.

"Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me. Please don't kill me."

He was still repeating this as an ogre kicked him away, smashing him against a wall and killing him on impact. His was a lucky death. He didn't believe to see the carnage which followed, as the Horde went through the streets, killing everyone in sight, pillaging the provisions and setting fire to the rest. He didn't feel the flames as they licked and hungrily devoured his body, his people, and his home.

He saw nothing of it.

He mostly didn't see an orc warrior, of middling age and powerful stature, seated on an enormous wolf, studying the burning town. And nodding to himself with a face both satisfied end saddened.

Argal Grimfrost had begun his quest of destruction and terror. He knew he could do it. But Klenin Debrik's burning body was the only one who saw that the greatest of the Horde's generals didn't care for what he would have to do, and the lives he would have to take.

__________________________________________________

BONUS PROFILE #5

Argal Grimfrost

Birthplace: Helgan Village, Thunderlord Clan Territory
Birth date: Summer 552 in human calendar terms
Height: 6'5"
Hair: Graying Black
Eyes: Dusky Blond
Present status: Warlord of the Horde, General of the Shade Army
Allegiances: Orgrim Doomhammer, the Blackrock Clan, Dreanor

History: Although very few in the Horde would believe it, Argal Grimfrost grew up in a steady, loving family of simple farmers, when the orcs hadn't yet traded their shamanism nature for their thirst for battle. Quick-witted, he was the pride of the family, and many saw a scholar in him.

Alas, this was not to be. The War of Domination began as the orc clans yielded to darker emotions and founded the Horde. Taken into the fold of the Thunderlord Clan, Argal fortunately soon found great talents for war within himself, and quickly earned himself a reputation which earned him the protection, respect and eventually friendship of Orgrim Doomhammer.

When the Horde went through the Great Portal and waged war for the humans for the first time, Argal became Doomhammer's most trusted lieutenant, and aided him in achieving many victories. It was with Argal's aid that Doomhammer, more moderate than most orcs, took control of the Blackrock Clan and initiated reforms, beginning by the destruction of the Shadow Council.

Argal, called Grimfrost ever since he grimly held off human warriors on a snowy pass by himself, wasn't forgotten, and was raised to Warlord, a title he soon proved to be more than worthy of. He was amongst those who, like Doomhammer, didn't want the war to continue that much.

Still, today Argal is the leader of the Shade Army, the force designed to break Quel'Thalas and later the Alliance. Although having reservations about the tasks he has to undertake, and always fighting his darker yearnings, Argal is set to accomplish his duty, if only because of his close friendship with his warchief.